


When I Wake

by Rosage



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Family, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 16:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14622354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: Nott never expected to see him again, but in the morning, he’s still there--and so is she.





	When I Wake

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this a few weeks ago with inspiration from the Talks Machina commentary on episode 13.

When they escape from prison, they run in the same direction without a word.

They all but knock over shouting townspeople. A whiff of bread floats over the smoke as they pass the bakery, the one next to the store she stole from. Head down, she darts over to his other side, watching his boots to navigate. The cobbles make way to dirt, then grass, then pebbles, then--

Her feet splash in the water before she can stop. With a screech she leaps back and falls in the muck, water soaking into her pants. Her curses halt when a hand hovers in front of her face. She meets his haunted eyes, which break contact to look toward the town.

_ Shit _ . She clings to his hand as she stands and follows. His palm burns in contrast to the freezing water, which only comes to his knees but rises above her waist.  _ It’s a trap, it’s a trap, it’s a trap.  _

More screeches, more curses. He lifts a finger to his lips and looks again over his shoulder. The guards will lose their trail on the other side of the river; she can’t compromise that, but she’d rather burn in prison than drown.

With her neck craned back, she almost doesn’t notice when the water consumes less of her. Finally she can walk without it sucking at her. As soon as her feet hit the bank, she lets go of his hand and dashes forward, wet cloth glued to her legs.

She bursts ahead of him in spurts, but her small frame has to slow down, both to conserve energy and avoid losing him. They can’t afford to lag. Though she doesn’t hear anybody behind them, their wet feet are leaving a trail. He seems to be thinking the same thing, avoiding the dirt in favor of dragging his boots through patches of grass.

They only stop when the town is no longer visible on the horizon. Panting, they collapse between a few trees, the best cover they find. He looks as much a sweaty pile of rags as she feels. The heat from his fire still clings to her, but his eyes are cold and empty.

With a snap of his fingers, that strange cat of his appears in his lap, and he scoops it up to bury his face in it. He stays that way for a long while, during which she’s too drained to do more than roll around in an attempt to dry off.

Now and then she squawks or chirps, always drawing his wary eye. But each time she thinks to speak, the words either get mangled on the way out, or they cease to matter. Before she can mention her growling belly, he unearths some wild carrots and greens. Still wet, she shivers as the sun sets, and he starts a fire over which he cooks the vegetables along with a squirrel she hunts. 

She catches him looking at her, but as long as she watches him, he looks away. So she watches until the fire dies down, and he curls up on the ground with his jacket tight around him.

* * *

In the morning, he’s still there, asleep with his cat across his shoulders. After searching for signs they’ve been followed, Nott stands over him with her arms crossed. She should bolt. The prison guards stole their weapons, but he could set her on fire without them. She’s barely more than half his height, she’s outlasted her use, and she’s a goblin.

She’s a goblin, and he saved her.

The cat wakes first. Spying her, it hisses and digs in its claws. He wakes with a yelp, causing the cat to jump off of him. He rolls onto his back and looks up at her with wide eyes, even though the light must blind him like it did her. Nothing about him suggests he can set a prison ablaze.

She’s used to people cowering at the sight of her. It feels less personal when she knows how he hyperventilated in the corner of his cell, how he refused to speak to the guards but knelt by the bars to whisper to her.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she says, holding up her hands. It doesn’t seem wise to add  _ I couldn’t if I tried.  _ Slowly, he nods and sits up, his hands mirroring hers. 

His brow creases as he goes through all of his pockets, then stands to search as she had. “I need thread,” he says without looking at her. 

She pats herself down, but her collection was taken before she could ship it. The bright red rock and the mosaic tiles and the stick that was exactly her height. The urge seizes her to look at something--maybe the cloudy marble, maybe all of the things, she should organize them--but all she uncovers are bits of lint and thread from her cloak.

“I need a lot of it,” he says. She jumps. She’d forgotten he was there.

“Any town would have some. We can’t go back to the last one.”

She doesn’t realize there’s a speck of light in his eye until it dims. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, we can’t go back.”

“Do you know this area?”

He shakes his head. “We’ll have to follow water. It, uh, always leads to civilization.”

_ Another reason to hate water _ , she thinks, but he said  _ we _ , so they both set out in search of that damned river.

* * *

His name is Caleb Widogast. Nott must have learned that in prison, but she never expected to see him again, so she hadn’t bothered to remember.

He remembers her name. He remembers everything, apparently, or at least a lot. She notes that he’d never forget a grudge, or any items on his person that she might want to steal, not that either of them have anything to take.

At the next town, he visits a tailor. In his stammering he only gets out a handful of unfinished sentences. The tailor seems startled by the spectacle, and Nott uses the opportunity to stuff two spools of thread in her coat. While she’s at it, she takes a shiny metal button. Having more than one pocket occupied is such a relief that she swivels around to find more--but Caleb’s face has turned red, and the tailor seems displeased. With her hood up, Nott approaches to tug on Caleb’s sleeve. He lets her lead him outside, still trying to form words under his breath.

After looking around, she pulls out the spools and slips them in his pocket. He reaches for them with surprise, then mouths a _ thank you  _ before glancing nervously back at the shop. With haste he walks away from it.

His hands wave like they’re doing the talking for his slack mouth. When they’re in the shadow of another shop, he manages, “If she’d gotten a closer look at you…”

It’s the first time he’s referenced her being a goblin. In prison, she’d wondered if the lighting was too bad for him to notice. They’ll part ways now, probably.

“We’ll need something to eat,” he says.

“Of course,” she says, though she fails to mask her confusion.

“I’ll figure it out. You got me...” He gestures toward the spools. “Unless you wanted something else in return?”

She pats the pocket with her new buttons. “Something to eat will do,” she says.

* * *

They only stay in town long enough to obtain food and a pair of blades. He speaks in a slow whisper, but he can complete some thoughts, as long as it’s only them. They don’t try to talk to others unless necessary. A low profile is best when you’re a goblin and a criminal.

She doesn’t really breathe until that town, too, is no longer visible. Their pace is slow now that they’re not sprinting; when she forgets and scrambles ahead, she has to stop so he can catch up. Every time he does, he looks at her with his forehead scrunched, like he’s trying to figure out why she’s waiting.

They haven’t made enough progress for her liking when he begins searching for shelter. “It’s getting dark,” he says.

“You can’t see in the dark, can you?”

He scratches his chin. “You can?”

“Of course.” Had he thought she couldn’t see him cowering in his cell?

“Then can you scout in the dark?”

“It’s my specialty. Well, that and stealing things. Really, just stealing things. The dark is full of scary monsters and skulking beasties.” She sees his raised brow and holds up her palms. “I’m not going to steal anything from you. I know you don’t even have anything other than that thread, which if I wanted I could have just--”

“You don’t have to explain. I just want to know if--you know, if it’s dark and something’s coming, I won’t...”

“I’ll let you know if that happens.” By screaming, probably. His lips curl up the slightest bit as he settles below a tree.

Before he sleeps, he pulls out the thread and walks with it in a wide circle. It’s an alarm, he explains, to tell them if others come near. Nott listens eagerly. If she could do this, she might sleep through the night, not toss and turn fretting that someone would find her and her collections.

_ Or if I stay near someone who can do it. _

She shakes her head and curls up with the rough bark against her cheek, hugging her dagger beneath her cloak. He has his food, and a weapon, and his thread. He’ll be gone by morning.

When she wakes, he’s fast asleep against the other side of the trunk, his own dagger nestled in his arms.

* * *

Without discussing it, they agree it’s best to stay away from prisons. They visit farms where they can hide in the barn at night and steal eggs in the morning. They follow roads where caravans stop, leaving their wares unguarded with a proper distraction. It’s easier with an extra person to play decoy. Nott tells Caleb he’s better at it; she can’t let anyone see her face, whereas he can set fires and send a yowling cat careening through a camp.

Sometimes it means he has to talk to people, but he’s getting more and more words out when he needs to, enough to con farmers. Nott’s taken to asking him questions just to give him the practice. Often, she already knows the answer; she doesn’t want to pry, and if she appears ignorant enough to be harmless, it’s just as well.

Meanwhile, she grabs a trinket here, a rock there. There’s a limit to what she can carry, but she gathers enough things to sort through every night, that familiar release easing her nerves as she does. It’s short-lived when she thinks of everything she doesn’t have, or imagines it all being taken again.

She only gets out her stash when Caleb is asleep. One morning while she waits for him to wake, she practically tears the ground apart. She hasn’t had a drink in long enough to make her shake, and a round of nightmares made her give up on sleep. After pacing, she throws herself down and pulls out her collection, taking the time to savor the way each object reflects the sun.

A shadow steals away the glint of a spoon. As she spins around, she falls back, her body hiding her belongings. “Caleb! Good morning, I was, I was just--”

His eyes are still lidded and crusty, with no hint of accusation. “If it’s not breakfast, I don’t care what you have. But if it’s something you can sell, we could stop by a town.”

“Oh no, I, I can’t get rid of any of it.”

He yawns. “Is it useful?”

“Not exactly. But it’s very nice! Look, sometimes I just need to--especially shiny things, I just need to keep them--”

“If you need it, then you need it,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I imagine we both need to eat.”

The light hits his too-prominent cheekbones, and she wishes she’d cooked something while she waited. Instead he starts a fire while she puts away her collection, thinking about how odd the wish feels.

* * *

Sometimes in the night he calls out, and she leaps to her feet to find them still alone, his sleeping face drenched in sweat.

It’s not surprising. It happened often enough in jail. As then, she tells him where they are, but now it’s not such a distressing answer. He mutters the current hour and the hours until sunrise before he passes out again.

Since he doesn’t ask about her collection, she doesn’t ask about his dreams, nor does she ask why he deals with frights by counting pebbles or listing spells. Instead she asks about the spells themselves every opportunity she gets. It’s not just to encourage him to talk, though she’s begun to feel little bubbles of pride at his speech. Every day she learns of a new ability of his. He gains more every time he gets his hands on a book or scroll, which is rare when most of their time is spent skulking through fields.

“If we weren’t on the run, how strong could you get?” she asks one day around the fire. He looks up at her sharply, then away with a grimace.

“We are on the run.”   


She’s never really thought of a future, either, but it’s difficult not to these days. There is another thought, building and buzzing in the back of her mind like one of her urges, ever since learning he specializes in transmutation. Even though she’s experienced with alchemy, she lets him explain materials to her, interrupting only to praise his knowledge. She needs him to be thinking of every way he can change one thing to another. She needs to convince him he can grow powerful enough to change anything, or anyone. 

* * *

Footsteps behind them make Nott’s ears twitch. Two sets, heavy boots. There’s no way she’d face them; two on one might be a fair fight if it’s Nott and Caleb, not that she’s concerned with fair. She tugs at Caleb’s sleeve. His shoulders are hunched reflexively, as they’ve been ever since they entered the town, but his human hearing may not have picked up on it. 

“I left two pouches back at the shop,” she says, making him tense. This isn’t the first settlement they’ve been to, or the first use of these words. “Should we go back and look for them?”

A strangled noise escapes him before he snaps his fingers. Yowls erupt behind them, and they slip through an alley to double back to the market.

They don’t make it. A figure drops in front of them, in between their heights and clearly of their breed. Caleb speaks, but the figure’s repulsed eyes are fixated on Nott, whose twitching ears have loosened her bandages. By the time Caleb steps in front of her, she hears steel being unsheathed. 

There’s no way--but Caleb is in danger. 

_ Two on one. A fair fight.  _

She pulls out her short sword and darts in front of him, all pretenses gone as she lets loose a screech. 

Her target dodges. Nott whirls to continue the assault, not giving the enemy time to launch one of their own. The alley doesn’t give much space for the dance--after a few misses, Nott sends herself careening into a wall, her hood knocked off. A hand grabs her wrist. She sinks her teeth into it, and the enemy drops their weapon in shock. Their free palm slams her shoulder into the wall, pinning her.

Unable to spare a glance, she doesn’t know what Caleb is doing until she hears a cat and two sets of heavy footsteps. A familiar utterance, and roaring flame. Nott’s enemy curses, their grip slackening, and she wriggles free. 

A wall of fire blocks the entrance to the alley, Caleb breathing heavily on one side and footsteps clambering away on the other. The enemy gives her one last hateful look before climbing onto the roof. 

As always, Nott and Caleb don’t stop running until the town is out of sight.

* * *

The forest provides them more cover, but the same holds true for enemies. Nott jumps at each bird call, each snap of a twig. As she navigates around the trees, a painful tug on her ear catches her, making her draw her dagger with a screech.

“Hold still,” Caleb says. “It’s just a branch.” He bends to free her earring where it got caught. It’s the first time he’s paid attention to her ears that she can remember, and when she’s free he continues on their way.

As they walk she snatches up mushrooms, roots, anything that looks edible. She pockets the most colorful mushrooms and reaches to eat one of the browner ones.

“Wait,” he says, holding out a hand.

Though it makes her twitch, by now she can hand the food over for inspection and expect it back (if anything, she needs to push him to eat). While ‘eat first and throw up later’ hasn’t gotten her killed yet, letting him do this stops him from fretting over her supper. He picks over her findings, naming each one out loud along with its properties while her claw taps on the ground. Sometimes it’s fascinating to hear what he knows--other times soothing just to listen to his quiet drone--but she’s  _ hungry _ .

Finally he hands over most of her findings. “This one’s poisonous,” he says about one of the prettiest mushrooms. “See the spots?”

“I won’t eat it,” she says as she reaches for it. He throws the best things away sometimes. “I’ll keep it separate. Poison’s useful as long as it’s not in our bellies.” That, and she likes the spots. She’ll probably study them before bed. Reluctantly but without question he hands it back, and she pockets it.

* * *

One day, she wakes up, and he isn’t there.

She’s been expecting this. It’s been a surprise every day they’ve woken up together, every single day.

Her heart nearly escapes from her ribs as she scrambles around the clearing, searching for tracks of him having been dragged away, sniffing for blood, for anything familiar. 

“Caleb? Caleb?”

Her screeches send birds scattering, but nobody comes. Finally she finds footprints and scampers after them, nose to the ground, inhaling dust.

She bumps into his boot and throws herself up at him, her claws digging into his pant leg. “Caleb! Where were you?”

Seeming unscathed, he looks down at her with wide eyes, a bundle of cloth and food in his arms. “I got these for us. Some travelers left their camp.” He swivels his head. “But they probably heard you. We should leave.”

His voice is steadier than her heartbeat, which hasn’t calmed since she’s found him. Up to this point, she’s barely managed to escape from anywhere with her life and her collections. 

Now she has a boy to protect.

* * *

While her boy sleeps in, Nott gathers berries from bushes around the clearing. She pops each kind in her mouth, waits to see if they bother her stomach, then picks the rest for him.

Since it’s long bright when he shouts himself awake, she ambles over with the berries wrapped up in a cloth. “I got you some breakfast.” 

As his gasping breaths subside, he stares at her. It’s been a while since he’s looked at her like her existence baffles him. None of the disgust she’s used to accompanies it, so she sits patiently beside him while he puzzles it out.

Rather than reach for the berries, he takes her hand, weak fingers swallowing her claws. Tensing at the touch, she holds still, confused at the gesture but wanting to let him have whatever helps.

“You’re still here,” he whispers.

“Of course. You are, too.” Unlike everyone else, he seems soothed by her smile. She nudges the berries toward him. “You should eat.”

Once their faces are stained red, they walk in the same direction without a word.


End file.
